Death and the Underdog
by xaritomene
Summary: MI6 has been out of Alex's life for two years now, leaving him free to get on with his life. Suddenly, he's being followed, people start dying, and worst of all, he's in it alone.
1. Chapter 1

Hey, people of the Alex Rider fandom!

I've never written on here before, so you're going to have to cut me a little bit of slack. Ok, more than a little. Hell, a lot. Thanks for reading this (if you are). I know it sounds like a Mary-Sue and all, but trust me, it's not.

Mary-Sues make me giggle.

It's actually because of my good friend Amitai that I'm writing here in the first place - HEY, HEY AMI, LOOK AT ME, OVER HERE!! Blame her if you don't like this fic.

Anyway, lovely people that you are, please review, because I need to get through school on Saturday morning. (yes, I did say 'school on Saturday morning'.)

Lots of love,

Xaritomene (Ha-ree-to-may-nay, not...er... xaritomene)

DISCLAIMER: I don't own anything to do with Alex Rider. Not the helicopter, not the action figures, and especially not Damien Lewis.

* * *

"_Tamar, don't do this," Alex pleaded, cold sweat running down his back. "Please, just listen to me."_

_There was a crack of a gunshot. Alex Rider gasped for breath and staggered backward, eyes wide in his face…_

* * *

It starts with a room. And a girl. And a television. 

Sitting on a stool, the girl watches the television intently, and on it, the comings and goings of people down a high street. Suddenly, the man behind her taps the screen, silently. Her eyes fix on the image of a tall blond boy walking with a redheaded young woman.

"Is that him?"

The man smiles grimly.

"That's him."

* * *

"Alex! We're going to be late," Jack Starbright yelled up the stairs, then turned to scrutinise herself in the mirror. She really didn't like black, she decided. Black made her look washed-out. Her favourite colour was turquoise, but it could seem a little outlandish at a memorial service. 

It had been a long couple of years since Ian Rider's death. First there had been that business with MI6 refusing to leave Alex alone. That had lasted a year. Then they had made a promise never to interfere with Alex again, and so far had kept to their word. The second year had been devoted to Alex recovering and then settling back down into a normal atmosphere. And Lord knows Jack was devoted to Alex. The boy had seen enough. It was the least she could do to make sure he lived a relatively normal life from now on.

Jack had always viewed herself as a combination of the mother and sister Alex had never had. Mothering was becoming difficult, now. Alex had outgrown mothering a long while ago, and now had the tendency to stay out all night and sleep until midday. Jack saw this as growing up and finding his feet. It was at these points that Jack could shrug her shoulders and say, non-committally, that she was not his mother.

There was a thud, a yelp, and Alex hopped down the stairs, a pained expression on his face. Clutching his foot, he glared at Jack, who was trying not to laugh.

"I stubbed my toe," he explained. "It _hurts_."

"Poor baby," soothed Jack, giggling. "What _would_ MI6 say if they saw you now?"

Alex's face shuttered off, as it always did when MI6 came up.

"They'd say nothing," he snapped, and stood in front of the mirror, straightening his black tie. Jack sighed. How long would it be before Alex could talk about MI6 without remembering what they put him through?

"Come here," she ordered, and undid the tie, before tying it neatly. Standing back from the boy, she inspected him. He'd grown far too good-looking for his own good. His light skin and hair contrasted with devastating dark eyes, and, thanks to MI6, his body was lithe and well-muscled, even with souvenir scars. Not to mention the smile that could stop a female heart at twenty paces. She'd have to watch out for him.

"Let's go."

In the car, Jack coached Alex on his behaviour.

"And if the priest talks to you, _smile_. Don't stand there looking like a lemon!"  
"It's a memorial service, isn't it?" demanded Alex. "I'm meant to look glum."

"Not if someone talks to you, you aren't. And I've invited Mrs Cokes."

Alex groaned. "Why?"

"She used to work for us. It's simple politeness, Alex."

Privately, Jack agreed. Mrs Cokes was a portly busy-body who had unhelpfully spread dangerous rumours about Ian Rider to everyone she knew. She also had an unfortunate-looking daughter, who was determined to ensnare Alex.

"Fuck politeness!"

"Alex!"

"Fine – fine. Just – keep her away from me."

"You won't even have to talk to her," Jack assured him.

* * *

Arriving at the church, Jack hastily parked the car. She was right: they were late. Leaping out of the car, she grabbed the rather battered wreath from the boot, and headed for the church, dragging Alex after her. 

"… We celebrate today the life of Ian Thomas Rider, whose notable achievements throughout his life –"

The priest broke off in surprise as a dishevelled Jack, towing along a harassed Alex, flung open the door, and gave the minute congregation a bright smile.

"Sorry we're late," she said, breezily, and swept along the nave towards the assembled company.

"Er –" the priest stumbled, confused. "As I was saying, whose notable achievements brought the company of Rider, Hughes and Smithwick into the twenty-first century, and who revolutionised the methods of…"

Alex allowed his mind to wander. The priest obviously didn't know that the man he was discussing was one of the most experienced and cold-blooded agents that MI6 had ever had, besides his own father. The true Ian Rider had rarely been home, and when he had, it was to take Alex somewhere abroad or to quiz him about school. Alex didn't miss his uncle as such. It was simply a kind of emptiness that was too easy to ignore. Now he was older, Alex wished he had known his uncle well enough to miss him properly.

"Now, a representative from the Royal and General Bank, with whom Ian had a longstanding account, would like to say a few words."

Alex watched, with icy fury, as Alan Blunt stood up to speak.

"Ian Rider was always a loyal client and a generous benefactor…"

Generous, indeed, reflected Alex, bitterly. He gave you his life.

Alan Blunt sat down after a speech of lies, as Alex thought it, to be replaced once again by the priest.

"…Father, Son and Holy Spirit, Amen," finished the priest, with obvious relief. Such a dull man he'd never had to talk about.

* * *

The company retired to the freezing church hall to shiver by the cold radiators, and eat cold nibbles. Dodging Mrs Cokes, who was casting covetous eyes at the large cake on the table, and her daughter, who was casting covetous eyes at him, Alex slid over into a corner to hide. 

"Good afternoon, Alex."

It was Alan Blunt. Neat as ever, clad in grey, with grey skin, grey hair, and grey eyes, he was the blandest person Alex had ever had the bad luck to meet.

"You have no right to be here," Alex hissed, through cold lips.

"No?" Alan Blunt looked vaguely interested. "And why not? Your uncle was one of our best. Why should we forget him after death?"

"Because it was you who killed him. You have no right to be here," repeated Alex. "Nor at anyone's funeral. You should just arrange them in advance."

"We go to the funerals and memorials of everyone I knew in our service, Alex," Blunt replied. "We have been to your father's, we have been to your uncle's, and, rest assured, Alex, we will be at yours."

With that, he bowed, and left. Alex stayed in his corner, simmering with anger. Jack, seeing what had happened, came over, worried.

"What did that creep have to say to you, Alex?" She muttered, taking his arm. Alex looked past her at the rest of the congregation looking interested at the abrupt exit of the banker, and said, softly:

"He said he'd come to my funeral."

* * *

"Well, that's that over for another year," said Jack, breezily. 

Alex snorted.

"What?" demanded his guardian. "I hate things like that. And we both know that Ian did very little for the local schools, or whatever crap that priest was spouting. He should take lessons from that priest in – oh hell, what was that film called? That one where there are millions of weddings?"

"_Four Weddings and a Funeral_," replied Alex, absently, staring out of the car window.

Jack glanced across at him. He had that completely unreadable expression on his face that usually meant he was plotting something.

"Are you still thinking about the creep?"

"No… yes. It's just weird, you know? I've been quietly blocking everything out for the past couple of years and then – wham! Everything brought back in Technicolor, just by talking to someone."

"Well, we'll just have to block it out again, won't we? Think of a suitable distraction. Cinema, holiday…?"

"Jack, it's school in a week!"

"So? We can go somewhere near home. Country cottage or something."

"Could we?"

Jack saw the hope in his face.

"Sure. I'll organise something. Where d'you want to go?"  
"Anywhere," muttered Alex. "Anywhere but _here_."

"Suits me. Anyway, I've been _dying_ to see that hot estate agent again."

"Jack…"

"Fine, fine. It's not as if I'm looking for a relationship. At the moment, anyhow."

Alex noted the bitterness in her voice, but said nothing. The loss of Serious Boyfriend Number Five had hit Jack hard. Staring out of the window, something caught his eye, but it was gone in a blur as Jack turned a corner.

"So...? Cornwall? France? Spain? The Canary Islands?" demanded Jack. "Ooh! How about the Bahamas?"

Alex grinned.

"Anywhere _you_ can sunbathe and chat up waiters and _I_ can do some halfway decent surfing. Somewhere _realistic, _remember. We're not that rich."

Jack waved a dismissive hand as they pulled into the drive of their Chelsea house.

"We're not that poor, either. Ian left an annual deposit for you, MI6 give you a reasonable pension – pension – you! At sixteen! – I get child benefit for you _and _I earn a fair amount myself. We're hardly on the breadline, here."

"I know, but I've got GCSEs coming up this year. I missed a hell of a lot, Jack," Alex reminded her. "Catching up and revision tutors cost a considerable load of money. So – Cornwall? Let's just save the Bahamas for my extended summer holiday, yeah?"

"Suit yourself – and make yourself useful! I've got ten bags of shopping to carry indoors, and I refuse to do it all by myself when a great, strong lad like you sits like a lump in the sitting room. Don't just take the light ones either – there's a bag with some soup tins in the boot. Hut, hut!"

Smiling, Alex obeyed, hoisting two plastic bags out of the car. He dropped them as he spun, sharply, something strange catching his eye for the second time that day. It was gone before he could register it. He shook his head as he picked up the bags. This was ridiculous. He was being jumpy.

Trudging towards the open door, he looked back, and squinted hard into the dark undergrowth of the park opposite his house.

There was nothing there.


	2. Chapter 2

Friends, Romans, Countrymen! Lend me your... er... eyes.

Hi. Again. I'm already addicted to this plot, so I'm afraid you lot are going to have to put up with another chapter. Hey, it beats French, Spanish and English coursework, none of which I have done yet. I am so dead.

Anyway, please continue to be wonderful people, and keep reviewing.

I love you all. Really, I do.

Xari xxx

* * *

Alex yawned, and slumped down further in his chair. Was it possible to be this bored on a Thursday afternoon? Actually, locked in double Geography with no means of escape, listening to the impossibly elderly teacher drone on about the economical development in MEDC countries, he supposed it was. Tom was sitting on the other side of the classroom, looking just as worse for wear as Alex. They had been separated for talking earlier, and with no other means of distraction, were both staring at the clock.

It had been two days since the memorial service, and nothing untoward had happened, unless you counted Jack being asked out by the travel agent. Yet a persistent feeling of uneasiness had dogged Alex, and, in his experience, that feeling never boded well. The last time he had felt this way, he had ended up trapped in a tank with a jellyfish.

The bell rang, and the pupils scrambled to their feet as the teacher determinedly continued to talk. Finally released into the cold November air, Alex and Tom left the school and headed homeward, clutching bags full of GCSE literature. Tom, excitable as ever, was chattering without stopping, not noticing the curious silence of his friend, who had barely uttered a word since they had walked out of the school gates. Alex was still uncomfortable. Not worried, exactly, just – uncomfortable. The feeling of alien eyes upon him made his skin crawl. He glanced sideways at Tom, who was even now talking nineteen to the dozen, and mentally shook his head. He couldn't very well say to his friend, 'Hey, could you, y'know, just keep it down for a second? I think we're being followed, possibly by some lunatic with a gun.'

He couldn't say that to Tom, who was, after all convinced that Alex's nightmare days with MI6 were over.

He'd been pretty convinced, himself.

* * *

Waving goodbye to his friend at the street-corner, Alex suddenly felt very, utterly exposed. An overwhelming panic that he hadn't felt in two years flooded up to swamp him. With that panic, the old MI6 training kicked into gear. Come on, he told himself, you've been in far more dangerous situations that this. Hell, you don't even know if this _is_ a dangerous situation yet.

He schooled himself not to break into a run, but kept himself to a steady walk. If the person following you doesn't kill you, panic almost certainly will. If you panic and run, you become prey. You alert the follower to the fact that you know they are there. By running, you risk your own life. But this suicidal tendency is strong, and Alex had to fight hard to keep control over the powerful instinct.

At last, he reached his house. Fumbling for his keys, forcing himself to behave as nonchalantly as possible, he pushed open the door, and shut it behind him, fast, leaning back against it, breathing his heart-rate slow again. Snapping back into gear, he locked and bolted the door, drawing the chain across. It wouldn't keep out someone very single-minded, but it would halt your average burglar.

"Jack!" he yelled, "I'm home!"

"Hi, honey," her voice came from the sitting room. "How was your day?"

"All right, I suppose," he called back, dumping his bag and joining her. "What's up, you look sad?"

Jack grimaced.

"Oh, it's nothing. There's just been a murder today. It's in the papers; take a look."

Taking the paper from her, Alex scanned the article. A man, accountant, 29, killed in North London, bullet wounds to the chest and head, leaves behind a wife and five-year-old-daughter, full police investigation to follow, Resquiecat In Pace.

Alex went to put on the kettle, the tense feeling in his stomach growing. It was ridiculous. This murder and him being followed were not connected. They could not be connected. He wasn't part of that world any more. He looked out of the window. It was dark outside. Feeling foolish, Alex went back to double-check the front door. Sliding the dead-lock back and then forth again, Alex drew the curtains, and went back into the sitting room with Jack.

Outside the house, a safe distance away, a girl watched from the shadows, her face impassive. Hearing the lock clack into place, she looked at the watch on her wrist, turned, and melted back into the night.

The next morning, Jack received a massive shock. Alex woke her up. _Alex_ woke her up. Alex never woke her up. He'd never had to. _Jack_ would usually wake _Alex_ up. Not today. Alex hadn't woken her up in two years. Not since he could sleep through the night without prowling the house, or checking that she was alive. Not since MI6 had left him alone with his nightmares. Today, Alex had woken her up with that same look of worry, and the same questions. Are you all right? Did you sleep well? You didn't hear anything in the night? No, nothing's wrong, really.

On the way to school, Alex cursed himself repeatedly. What the hell had made him do that? He hadn't _needed _to do that. Nothing had happened. Now he'd got Jack worried, and over absolutely nothing. An instinct, a feeling, if that. God, he felt stupid.

Tom was standing at the street-corner, waiting for him. Alex grinned, feeling better.

"French this morning," Tom announced, smugly, as Alex reached him. "You done your homework?"

"Of course," Alex replied, waving the sheet in front of his friend. "Double Biology, too. You done _your_ homework?"

Tom winced.

"Shit, no! Here, let me see yours."

They continued to school, Tom frantically trying to scribble the answers down, using any available flat surface, and telling Alex about the regional final of 'Dungeons and Dragons' at the same time. Alex listened, laughing, but always conscious of the feeling of someone else, lurking, just behind a corner.

* * *

On Friday afternoons, Brooklands stopped school half an hour early. Tom was staying behind for an extra hour. Having completed his Biology homework, he had, nevertheless, forgotten about his Chemistry, History and English Language homework, and had so been 'invited' by the teacher to remain at school to complete as much of it as he could. Alex left school alone.

It was November, and already starting to get dark by three o'clock. It was also bitterly cold. Alex huddled in his jacket, and headed off down the road. Three turnings later, he felt it. Eyes on his back, just out of sight and reach. Strangely, fury swept over him. He didn't know whether this was MI6 checking up on him, but if it was... Swiftly darting into a small path leading to the park, he waited. There was silence. And still silence. Then – the soft, almost inaudible 'pad, pad, pad' of soft shoes on tarmac. The footsteps stopped. Inching closer to the road, Alex stayed hidden in his alleyway. One more step... The follower stepped forward, and Alex lunged. He felt his body collide with something, and automatically forced it downwards. There was a thud as the girl hit the ground, Alex's weight on her chest.

Alex stared. In the half-light, she was tiny. Long, dark hair, plaited out of the way. Dark clothes and shoes made for silence. Brown eyes looked into black ones. Alex could think of nothing else to say than:

"Well, I hadn't expected _that_."

Nor had he expected feet to power into his stomach, sending him sprawling backwards about a foot. The girl picked herself up quickly, and prepared to run. Alex threw himself forward, grabbed her ankle, and yanked. She fell, slapping her hands to the ground as she did so, and rolling onto the balls of her feet. Alex stood up, circling her, warily. Not warily enough, he would reflect later, as the girl's ankles locked around his own, and pulled his feet from under him. He fell. Before he could collect himself, his opponent kicked him in the stomach, winding him, turned and ran. Drawing as much breath as his crushed lungs could take, Alex yelled after her:

"What the fuck do you want from me?"

No answer, as the girl vanished into thin air under the orange glow of the street-lights.

* * *

"I'm home," he called to Jack, locking the door behind him.

"I'm in the kitchen," was the response. "You're late. Where have you been? I was worried."

Alex looked slightly sheepish. There was no way in hell he was going to say that he'd tried to follow a seemingly non-existent girl, just as much as he wasn't going to mention that he'd been beaten up by someone half his size. He had his pride, and he didn't want to worry Jack further.

He needn't have bothered.

"What have you been doing, rolling in mud?" Jack cried, gesturing to his filthy school uniform.

"Nothing," he muttered, opening the fridge. "What's for supper?"

"Don't change the subject," snapped Jack. "This is to do with MI6, isn't it?"

Alex avoided her eyes.

"I – don't know, exactly. It might be. I didn't want to worry you," he added, defensively.

"Worry me?" Jack repeated, her voice cracking, "_Worry me_? Alex, you've been as tense as the proverbial piece of wood, you've been secretive, you've been bolting the doors as if we were under siege, and now, you're _covered_ in mud. How could I _not_ worry?"

"I'm sorry," said Alex. "I thought I might be able to sort it out for myself."

"You're not getting involved," Jack told him, firmly. "What's wrong with your left side? Come here."

Obediently, Alex hopped onto the island in the middle of the kitchen, just as he had done when he was nine, and let Jack inspect the damage. She whistled, quietly, and glared at him.

"I suppose I was a bit late when I said 'don't get involved', right?" she sighed. "This needs Arnica."

Alex looked down and smiled in spite of himself. Although old for his age, he still had a boyish pride in bruises, and this one was a whopper. Where the mini-ninja had kicked him, there was a growing stain of blue, purple and yellow.

Jack came back with the bruise-cream, humming to herself. Now they both knew they were in trouble, she felt better. Turning towards the television, she casually flicked on the six o'clock news as she smeared cream onto a flinching Alex.

Suddenly, as one announcement came up, she froze, and exhaled, slowly.

"What?" asked Alex, who, twisted away from the TV, couldn't see.

"Another day, another murder," she replied, softly. "Exactly the same as before. Bullets to the head and chest."

Abruptly fierce, she whirled around to face Alex.

"Don't you dare interfere! Don't you _dare_! I've already lost Ian to that dreadful organisation; I'm not losing you as well. Promise me you won't get involved! Promise me!"

Alex swallowed, staring at the screen, as pictures of the victim were shown. Had that man – businessman, 46, living by himself in Lewisham – known that he was going to die? This morning, had he known, would he have stayed indoors instead of opening his front door to a hail of bullets?

Alex didn't know.

"I promise," he answered, not meeting Jack's eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

She's back! She's back! And how do I know she's back? It is because I am she!!!!!

Right. Enough of the hallucinogenic drugs for the time being.

Third chapter is up, I've got a fourth one on the way (causing a HELL of a lot of morning sickness, but there we go). In fact, I seem to spend more of my time on this fic than on my 1500 word French coursework essay. You can imagine how popular this makes me.

Ok, so, please, PLEASE continue to be lovely people and r&r. Remember what I said about triple French on a Tuesday morning? Ok - an hour's football. In the freezing wastelands. With Mr. Woodlouse screaming in my ear to 'Kick the f bl ball', and occasionally, to 'watch my f language'.

I love you all. Except Amitai, for she is evil, and steals my chocolate biscuits.

_I didn't, you GAVE them to me! ...Well... you gave a COUPLE to me..._

I sneer in the face of your 'gave'

Xaritomene xxxxxxxx (Harrytomaynay)

* * *

Alex sat up, abruptly, in bed, his nerves humming. There was a strange keenness in the air. For a moment, he sat still, puzzled as to why he felt so alert. He looked out of the window by his bed, seeing the beginnings of sunlight filter through the pale, grey dawn and the orange streetlights. Then he remembered; it was Saturday, and he was going to figure out what the fuck was going on.

Tumbling out of bed, he selected his quietest and blandest clothes. Today he had to blend in and become one of the crowd, instantly forgettable. As he looked at himself in the mirror, he reflected that he was attempting to do the impossible: follow the person who was following him – namely the mini-ninja girl who had beaten him. Whatever she was part of, it could not be good. He sneaked downstairs into the kitchen. The front door was still locked – Jack hadn't gone out yet. Alex wasn't surprised. At the weekends, after a punishing week's work, Jack refused to acknowledge anything earlier than nine o'clock. As it was half-past seven, Alex figured he had enough time before she noticed he was gone. Grabbing a piece of bread and jam, he turned on the TV, praying silently. The kitchen was beneath Jack's room, and if it woke her up, he would be very, very dead. Turning the volume down until barely audible, he winced as the sadly expected came up on the screen.

"...announce the latest death in the series of copy-cat murders taking place across London. Sarah Whitely, aged 36, was found dead in her home in Hammersmith in the early hours of the morning. A spokesperson for..."

Alex thought. What was so special about the victims? What linked them? It certainly wasn't the work of a psychotic maniac – it was the careful, calculated work of an experienced killer. No murder weapon left, quick, relatively clean deaths, and the lives and routines of the victims carefully researched. But it wasn't his business. Not now. And he should thank God that all he had to worry about was a girl.

* * *

The early morning air was crisp and cold and Alex shivered as he drew up his hood. Instinct told him that no-one was near. He smiled, sardonically. Maybe Little Miss Ninja didn't work weekends. Still, he wanted to lose himself in a crowd as quickly as possible. He had one advantage: he now knew what she looked like. Speeding along on his bike, he locked it next to the Tube station, and took the Underground to City Centre. He thought over possible stops carefully and eventually settled on Oxford Street – the commercial centre of London. In the run up to Christmas, it would be jam-packed. Getting off the train, he ran along the Street, and chose a bench next to a coffee stall, and waited.

He waited for almost an hour, as it turned out, before that sly feeling settled in the pit of his stomach. He grinned, savagely to himself, and drained his second cup of coffee. The very picture of nonchalance, he got to his feet, threw away the paper cup, and scanned the crowd. He didn't see his stalker – then again, he hadn't expected to. He wandered over to the nearest shop – winced as he realised he was staring avidly into 'Ann Summers' - and listened for any sign of disruption. The girl would still be wary, especially after yesterday. He had to ensure her guard was down before he acted. For the next half hour or so, he wandered into and out of shops, bought a couple of Christmas presents for Jack (he figured that as he was on Oxford Street, he could kill a little time) and a newspaper. He continued to act as though nothing was wrong, innocence in every step. She had to be getting bored by now.

On cue, something caught his eye – a flash of black hair in the watery winter sunlight! His stalker was becoming less cautious. Alex's eyes narrowed. It was time to go. He plunged into the now thick crowds, every muscle in his body tense. There, again! The black plait, whisking out of sight, just ahead of him. He walked, carefully unzipping his grey hoody as he went. Rapidly, he dragged it off, revealing a second hoody, of the same design, in red. He stuffed the grey in his shopping bag, and kept walking, all the time watching around him. His stomach sank, as, looking around, he saw nothing.

Ten minutes passed, as Alex pretended, once again to be interested in the shops (thankfully, 'Hamley's', this time), cursing himself. If she'd given him the slip, he'd just wasted a perfectly good morning's sleep. Suddenly, something moved in the corner of his vision – he was still in the game. His opponent was moving fast in the opposite direction. She was either bored and had given up, or had been called back by a superior. Alex took up the chase, as casual as before. The girl moved backwards and forwards in the crowd, weaving through the human traffic to get through faster. Determined to put her off the scent, Alex stripped off another layer of clothing. Now clad in a blue shirt, he followed. God, he followed. The girl walked swiftly for two miles or more, and before Alex knew it, he was in Holborn and on the Tube once again, heading outside City Centre. Excitement bubbled up inside him. If she was leading him somewhere, he'd bet it was somewhere worth seeing.

His prey got off the Tube near the end of the Central line, outside North London, a strange mixture of suburbia, parks and storage space. It was now half past eleven, and the girl had given up all inconspicuousness – she moved freely through the Saturday crowds, allowing Alex to get a proper look at his opponent. She was dressed normally, though still in running shoes, and comparatively light clothing for winter – clothing made for speed. She was so thin he could probably snap her in half if he tried. He shook his head. What if he was being stupid? Ok, so she'd been following him. So she'd hit him around a little. But hadn't he attacked her? Maybe it was self-defence? Alex mulled it over, getting more confused as he went, changing his top for the last time. Just as he'd reached the conclusion that he was being dense and that she was probably just a weird girl who'd taken a fancy to him, he realised that the girl had vanished; he had left suburbia and shops behind, and was now in storage space. The warehouses loomed around him, slightly menacing, even in daylight. Then something struck him as odd. One warehouse was empty. The sign outside stated 'To Let'. Warehouses in London were never empty, being always in great demand in a fast-expanding city. He wasn't _that_ far outside City Centre, and warehouses near Central London were always snapped up quickly. _Why_ was this one empty?

He had forgotten he was standing stock-still, open-mouthed at this phenomenon, completely unprepared for the body that flew out of nowhere, knocking him sideways. His prey now sat with her knees in his stomach, eyes blazing. Once again, Alex's SAS training took over. Grabbing the girl's waist, he used all his considerable strength to throw her from him. She landed, jarring slightly on the cement. Alex swiftly slammed his knees into her chest, forcing the breath out of her.

"Who the fuck are you?" he yelled, arms braced either side of head, hands pinning her shoulders to prevent her escape. The girl lunged her entire torso forward, and bit him savagely on the wrist, teeth sinking into tendons and sinews even as her foot jammed upwards between his legs. Alex curled into a ball with the unexpected pain, and rolled away. The girl wasted no time, and a barrage of kicks landed on his back, stomach, and once, spitefully, to his head.

She had forgotten to watch her feet before – she forgot again now. Alex's hands snaked out, seized her ankles, and dragged. Down she went, hitting her head painfully against the ground as she fell. Now ruthless, Alex kicked her in the kidneys. She yelped, twisting to avoid more blows, and quickly got to her feet, bent over slightly, but upright. She sprang at Alex, fists raised, and punched, catching him in the eye. Hissing with the pain, his eyes watering, he backhanded her in turn across the face, swiftly following it with a right hook to the nose. He felt it break under his hand. The girl cried out once. Distracted, he glanced at her face rather than her feet and hands, and was dealt a hard crack to the ribcage with a foot, followed by a fist in his stomach. Improvising, fighting the pain, Alex flung himself at the girl. Using his entire body-weight, he grabbed her, twisted her around, and locked her back against his chest, trapping her arms against her body. Snarling, she stamped on his foot and shoved her elbows back against his sore ribs. Alex swore, and reflexively loosened his hold. The girl scratched sharp nails down his face, drawing blood, before striking backwards across his face. Now utterly fed up, Alex renewed his hold on her body, clasping his adversary forcibly against him. He was tired. He wanted it to stop.

"Enough! For fuck's sake, enough!" he panted, as the girl twisted in his grip, frantic for escape. "Just – for Christ's sake, _stop it_!"

The pair sank to the ground. The girl's struggles lessened, and Alex let her go. Crawling a little way away, she let her body sag against a wall. Every muscle in his body screaming, Alex joined her. Moments passed as they just breathed, exhausted and in pain. Alex took an inventory of his wounds. Bruised, maybe cracked ribs, black eye and numerous bruises to face and body. Not the worst beating he'd ever had, but an impressive one, nonetheless. He glanced at the girl, who was apparently doing the same. Split lip, broken nose, bruised kidneys and numerous bruises to face and body. Turning sideways, she caught his eye. They stared at one another.

"What – what's your name?" Alex asked, softly, still trying to get his breathing under control. There was a pause, then, just as quietly:

"Tamar. My name is Tamar."

Alex jumped. He hadn't expected her to answer so quickly, if at all. The girl – Tamar – wiped her nose, which was still bleeding sluggishly, and nodded at him.

"Tamar," she repeated. Alex felt he should make an effort, if just to make conversation.

"Tamar?" He tried, carefully.

"No – not _Tam_ar. More, T'mar."

Alex looked at her, properly. Tamar was small and compact, her hair and eyes black. It was her face that puzzled him. She had a traditional Slavic face – slightly sallow, with high cheekbones, slanting, sloe eyes and a blank, impassive expression. 'Tamar' was not a Slavic name, and this girl definitely came from Eastern Europe.

"'Tamar' isn't really your name, is it?" he said, eyebrows raised.

She laughed, and then winced as her wounded lip reopened.

"No," she admitted. "What idiot would I be if I told you my real name?"

"You know my name," he pointed out.

"Of course. You're Alex Rider."

"Then tell me yours."

The girl laughed again, scornfully.

"Yes – to be like you English. Like your James Bond, not subtle at all. Everyone knows who he is. It's too dangerous for people like me."  
"Oh, yeah?" Alex didn't even try to keep the derision out of his voice.

"Yes," Tamar looked at Alex as though he was completely stupid. "The less you give people, the less they know about you, the less they have to hurt you with. Such as –" she continued, easing herself to her feet, gingerly stretching –"If you had something I needed, I know that you have an American woman living with you. I know that she is your only family. I know that you have a friend named Tom. You think I would stop hurting them, just to get what I wanted?"

Alex shuddered at the clinical, chilling analysis, and then remembered the purpose of the morning.

"Why are you following me," he asked, simply.

Tamar smiled, and said nothing.

"Hey!" he said, sharply. "You've been following me for three days now, and I want to know why. I don't belong to that world anymore. What have I got to do with you?"

The girl looked at him, seriously.

"For those injuries," she gestured at him, "I'll tell you one thing, Alex Rider. Keep away from here. If you don't belong to my world, stay away from this place."

"Or what?" Alex said, mockingly.

Her face was impassive, her eyes sad.

"I don't want to have to kill you, but I will," she warned him, quietly.

Alex knew she meant it. Standing up, he glared at her.

"I need answers, Tamar," he snapped. "And I'm going to get them."

He walked away from her, limping slightly, towards the Tube station.

Jack screamed when she saw him. Alex wasn't entirely surprised. The combination of a black eye and the thump across his cheekbone had left the right side of his face swollen. He could barely see out of one eye.

Later, after he had been interrogated, scolded and finally fussed over, a glowering Jack swabbed his face with surgical spirit. Flinching at the stinging liquid, Alex cautiously inquired after her day.

"Pretty average, until now," Jack snapped. Seeing Alex's face – well, what there was unbruised – fall, she tutted, guiltily and swept him into a tight hug. "Well, I suppose I _should_ be grateful that you're not dead or at least completely purple."

She stood back to admire her handiwork.

"Ok, so you do bear a startling resemblance to a blueberry, but the swelling should go down a little bit by tomorrow, and we'll slap some more Arnica on, then."

"Not 'slap', I hope," Alex grinned, sliding off the kitchen island, and grimacing as his ribs smarted. It honestly felt as though a horse had kicked him.

"Jack, could you take a look at my ribs? They hurt like hell."

He had a feeling that Jack would be more sympathetic if he mentioned it now, rather than if he woke her up screaming in pain early on a Sunday morning. In response to her gesture, he gingerly removed his shirt, wincing. Jack sighed.

"Those are cracked, I'm sorry to say. What on earth happened to you? No, don't look at me like that; I _know_ you got beaten up, but by _whom_? You mumbled something I couldn't catch when I asked you. Hang on," she squinted at his face, "Those, Alexander John Rider, are scratches. Only girls scratch. Have you been chasing a girl who just happens to be a martial arts master – mistress?" she asked, prodding him, teasingly.

"Fine – fine," Alex raised his bloodied knuckles in surrender. "It was a girl, all right, yes, she was shorter than me, no, I _wasn't_ chasing her and no, she didn't beat me to a pulp."

He paused.

"In actual fact, we beat each other to a pulp."

"Fair enough," said Jack, tidying away the first aid kit. "You won't tell me what's really going on, so I'm not going to ask. All I _will_ ask is that you don't get yourself killed. Please. I need someone to watch horror movies with on a Saturday night. Tonight it's 'Nightmare on Elm Street', by the way. What are you doing tomorrow?"

"Research," replied Alex, staring through the window into the dusk, where he was sure Tamar was waiting for the next day.


	4. Chapter 4

Long live half term! And sleeping past 7am! And the fact that it's Saturday and I don't have mud in my hair, nor Mr. Woodlouse doing the hand-jive up and down the sidelines (We return to the idea of school and PE on Saturday once again! I know - it's bizarre. Amitai and I are trying to phase it out, don't worry. We protest by writing fanfiction instead of coursework.).

So, wonderful, great and most brilliant readers, I return with another chapter, on which I worked very hard. I hope you all enjoy it - come and tell me about it. If you didn't... tell me about it anyway. Yes, I know I don't have the Triple-French-on-Tuesday thing as an excuse to beg for reviews, but there is a curious lack of siblings this week, so I will get very lonely... : (

Especially as my parents have gone out, with instructions 'not to even think about touching that car', although I 'might do some piano practice'.

Pffff, I am less than thrilled by their options. Option.

So... here we go. Thank you to **Amitai**who has practically _nursed_ me through this chapter, and for her mixture of encouragements and insults that helped me along.

Although, I would appreciate it if she DIDN'T eat all of my chocolate biscuits.

lotsalove to you wondrous people, too. Have a lovely half term. Or, y'know, week.

Xari xxxxxxxxxx

* * *

The next morning, Alex was out of the house before Jack could yell 'Cornflakes' at him. Pausing only to grab a cup of tea on the way, he ran for the Tube station, and was on the train and heading for North London once again. Scrawling notes into a battered school exercise book, he carefully counted the stops, praying that he wouldn't get lost. He also prayed that he wouldn't wind up dead at the end of the day. Whoever Tamar was working for, and whatever they were doing, they meant business.

The train pulled into his stop, and he exited above ground, comforted by the sounds of busy humanity around him. Suddenly made aware that he was standing outside the Underground with a vacant expression on his face, he shook his head and moved on. Re-tracing his steps from yesterday, he passed through suburbia and the small cluster of shops, and back to where the warehouses loomed around him. Abruptly, Alex spun, staring.

He'd forgotten about his shopping bags yesterday, complete with his presents for Jack and the two jumpers he'd discarded whilst tailing Tamar. He'd left them there by accident, and had only remembered when it was dark and there had been no question of going back to get them. He'd fully expected the bags to have been nicked, or their contents scattered on the grass. Yet, there they were, among the long grasses. Cautiously, in case of a nasty surprise, Alex prodded one bag. When nothing happened, he delved his hand inside and felt around. The jumper was damp with dew, but aside from that, everything was there. Tamar had obviously let them be.

Tamar. Another thought struck him. She hadn't been following him, today. Surely, now he knew that something was up, she'd be sticking to him closer than glue. But she wasn't. It was odd. Looking up from the bags to the empty warehouse in front of him, Alex let his jaw drop again. It was, apparently, no longer empty. In fact, a man was hammering a sign into the ground – 'Sold'.

"Tamar," Alex growled.

He strode over to the man, who surveyed the fair-haired, scowling boy with mild interest.

"Excuse me. You wouldn't know when that warehouse was sold, would you?" asked Alex.

"Don't ask me, lad," shrugged the man, giving the sign one, final whack with the hammer. "I was just told to come out this morning and put this up. Don't know anything else about it. Bleeding new company policy. Working on a Sunday! I ask you..."

He lit a cigarette, and trudged away, still muttering, darkly.

Alex thought. He had two options. One: to go home, find the estate agent responsible for the land and interrogate them. Two: to try and get information straight from the horse's mouth. Alex decided that a mixture of the two was his best bet.

He quickly scribbled the website and phone number of the estate agent from the sign into his book. Hoping fervently that he wasn't going to be met with a bullet between his shoulder blades, he called:

"Tamar!"

There was silence. Alex threw himself flat onto the ground, and prayed.

"What are you doing; crawling in the dirt?" drawled a voice. Alex looked up.

Tamar – her face as bruised as his – was staring at him with a mixture of wariness and wry amusement. Alex got to his feet, glaring at her.

"Why is this building sold today, where it wasn't yesterday?" he demanded. "You gave them a tip-off, didn't you?"

"Gave _who_ a tip-off?" retorted Tamar. "Tell me why I shouldn't shoot you right now. I warned you, didn't I?"

"You don't have a gun, anyway," said Alex, unthinking, and, as she lifted an eyebrow, raised his hands in surrender. "Fine, if nothing's stopping you from shooting me, why _aren't_ you shooting me?"

"I don't think you're dangerous, yet," replied Tamar, indifferently.

"Dangerous!" cried Alex, exasperated. "You must have thought me a little dangerous if that warehouse is suddenly occupied. And why have you stopped following me?"

"You seem almost disappointed," remarked the girl, sitting down on the grass.

"Trust me, I'm not. Answers, please."

"No."

"Why not, for fuck's sake?"

"Because you always ask questions that I can't answer."

"Great! Perfect! Ok! What's your name – oh, yep, forgot, you can't answer that. Well, then, how old are you?"

"Sixteen."

"Where are you from?" Alex continued his interrogation.

"I was born in Suupuri, in Estonia, but I've lived in Russia all my life."

"What do your parents do?" he asked, sheer curiosity taking over his desire to worm answers out of her. "Do they know you're part of an evil scam based in England?"

"Who says I _am_ part of an evil scam?" Tamar carefully picked dried mud off her shoes.

"Don't play innocent," Alex retorted. "You're a teenager living, as it would seem, in a block of warehouses, you've been behaving in the _most_ unsubtle way ever, you've been stalking me... You've practically got a sign above your head, saying 'I-am-the-minion-of-an-insane-evil-mastermind', written in big, sparkly letters."

Tamar scowled.

"I'm carrying on the family business," she explained, nonchalantly.

"What, behaving like 'Stig of the Dump', or being the most transparent spy possible?"

The girl ignored him. Alex snorted.

"Spying, it is, right? For God's sake – 'a family business'? What kind of twisted moron are you? You can actually turn a potentially lethal situation into a 'family business'? No wonder you're working for an evil, insane mastermind – you're brainwashed just the right amount."

"Who says we're not similar?" shot back Tamar. "How can you criticise my way of life when you aren't the prime example of normality? Didn't you do the same as your uncle and father – _da, kanyeshna,_ we know about them – by working for MI6?"

Alex's lips tightened.

"I was coerced into it." Then, as Tamar looked puzzled, "'Coerced', like 'forced'. You don't look particularly coerced."

"It makes no difference," said Tamar, with an air of finality. "The fact is that you were also a spy. Coerced, forced or not, you were once like me. Happy thought, isn't it?"

Alex stood up, grabbing his shopping bags from the ground.

"That's the most warped logic I've ever heard in my life. Fuck off, Tamar, and don't you dare try to tell me that we're even remotely similar. We're not."

He walked away, towards the station once again.

"Good-bye, Alex Rider," called Tamar, mockingly, behind him. "Good luck with your investigation. Oh, and my parents – they're dead. We've more in common than you think."

Alex paused and turned around. Tamar had gone.

* * *

Alex trawled the Internet for an hour or more. The website – 'Merry and Little Commercial and Real Estate Agents' – sprawled across a number of links, each vaguer than the last, and was associated with more than a few companies. Alex trailed link after link, finding dead end after dead end. Finally, he flung himself back in his chair, disgusted.

"You know what I think?"

Jack had come in with a cup of tea and some soup.

"What?" asked Alex, dully.

"Firstly, that you're hungry, tired and still recovering from your little exploit yesterday, and secondly, that you're going about this the wrong way. If in doubt, talk to somebody human."

"It's Sunday," Alex pointed out. "There's no-one in the office to talk to."

"_Yes_, it's Sunday, but – eat your soup – tomorrow will be Monday, and there _will_ be people to talk to. One more day won't kill you."

"No... but I'd like to get some things straight."

"Well, you're not going to do it today. You are going to relax, and let me put more Arnica on those ribs of yours. Come on! Tray down, shirt off!"

Obediently, Alex raised his arms, clenching his teeth against the persistent pain.

"What do you need to find out, anyway?" Jack asked, gently smoothing the cream onto the bruises.

"I need a name. Someone's bought a warehouse up in North London, and given the circumstances –"

"You sneaking around like a thief in the night, and coming back black and blue? Soup, Alex," interrupted Jack.

Alex glared.

"Yes, well, it's suspicious. _Before_ I came back black and blue, that property wasn't sold. All of a sudden, today, it is."

"You realise that they're not going to give you names, addresses and other questionable material just for ringing up?" Jack reminded him. "You're going to have to infiltrate good and proper before they start doling out that sort of information."

Alex grinned.

"Infiltrate?"

"Infiltrate," she agreed. "Now, put your shirt back on, turn off that damn computer and go and do something healthy. _Such as eating your soup_."

Alex hastily lifted the spoon to his mouth.

* * *

"Good afternoon!" said Jack, breezily, as they walked into Merry and Little's the next day, after school.

"Good… afternoon," said the receptionist, slightly hesitantly. "May I help you?"

She looked a little nervous of this small, energetic, turquoise-clad woman and the tall, serious boy dressed in a suit.

"I do hope so," replied the woman, smiling. "My nephew here has come for work experience – we arranged it with you about a month ago?"

"I'm sorry," said the receptionist, apologetically, after checking her computer, "but I can't seem to find you on our list, Miss…"

"Starbright," offered Jack, with her brightest smile.

"Miss Starbright. I'm afraid we haven't got any students down for work experience until June."

Jack quirked her head.

"How very odd. I arranged for Alex to come before Christmas – we can't manage any other date. Can it be sorted out, do you think?"

"I'm sorry, but we don't usually give work experience places without an appointment," faltered the poor receptionist, tapping her pen against her desk, anxiously. Jack drew herself to her full height of 5 foot 4, and glared.

"Well, this is all extremely irregular," she sniffed, crossly. "I'm perfectly certain we arranged it all _weeks_ ago. Alex is on an extremely tight schedule, and we really can't afford to have it mucked about. Are you _sure_ he's not on your list."

"Er – yes, but, look, Miss –"

"May I speak to the branch manager, please?" enquired Jack imperiously.

Holding the phone, the receptionist looked positively terrified. Jack lifted a regal eyebrow. There was a long, tense pause, and then the receptionist replaced the phone with shaking hands, collecting herself. This was the receptionist's first week on the job (which, of course, Jack had known perfectly well), and already something had gone wrong! She had to sort it out.

"Miss – Miss Starbright, how long was your nephew to be with us?" she asked.

"Just this afternoon," Jack replied, frowning.

"Well," continued the receptionist, carefully. "I'm quite sure we can… fit him in somewhere today. There are a few projects he might be interested in."

Jack gave her the benefit of her most dazzling smile.

"Oh, _really_? Do you think you could? Oh, thank you, that would be absolutely perfect. You are such a life-saver."

Turning to Alex, she gave him the merest ghost of a wink.

"Now, darling, I simply have to run. The car will pick you up at around half-past five – that is when you shut up shop, isn't it?"  
The receptionist nodded, faintly.

"At half-past five, then. And please, Alex, don't make trouble for these people. They're being very kind, allowing you in without an appointment. Bye, darling."

And with that, exuding upper-class graciousness, Jack swept out.

The receptionist fell back into her chair with a sigh of relief. Catching Alex's eye, she blushed crimson, and stood up.

"Can I get you anything? Tea? Coffee?"

"Some tea would be lovely, thanks," replied Alex, gravely, trying his utmost not to laugh. The image of a ridiculously plummy, posh Jack would remain in his head for a long time.

The receptionist returned with tea, visibly more relaxed.

"Sorry about all that; it's been a bit hectic around here, lately. So, you're here on work experience. Right, do you know anything about the property marketing business?"

"Some – my uncle manages a development and marketing business in New York. (That was my aunt, by the way. Sorry about her) I hope to go into property as soon as I finish school."

May as well keep up the family resemblance, he thought.

"Well, is there any area you find particularly interesting?" asked the receptionist, watching him over her tea-cup.

"Oh, yes – storage space, and warehouse sale," answered Alex, guilelessly. "It's very lucrative at the moment."

* * *

More than an hour later, Alex found himself in front of a computer. After trawling through countless information packs on 'storage retail', the receptionist and an assistant, charmed by this good-looking, well-bred boy, had managed to wheedle him a promotion, relegating him the task of updating clients' files.

He had one chance: half an hour to get the information he needed before the shop closed.

His sharp, brown eyes scanned the screen. It was all too complicated – which button to press, which link to select… Praying quietly, Alex clicked on 'Purchases _per mensem_'. His head swam as a vast list of names clients, properties and final prices appeared, neatly columned and colour-coded. Shutting his eyes, he chose 'Properties purchased/week beginning 12/11'.

A slow grin spread across his face.

_17/11 – Property #2674 – Hampden Industrial Estate – South Woodford, London W12_.

Alex moved his mouse to 'Client', and breathed out, slowly, as a name materialised.

* * *

"Nikolaevitch?" Jack paused, wooden spoon halfway to the saucepan. "Wouldn't be Yuri, would it? Yuri Nikolaevitch?"

"Yup," replied Alex, eyes once again fixed to the computer screen.

"But isn't he a dangerous but powerful semi-madman from Russia? The one with all the crazy ideas about the 'jackal West'? The one who thinks that Communism and the Holocaust were the best things to happen to the world since sliced bread?" Jack was fighting to keep her voice calm.

"If by 'dangerous-but-powerful-semi-madman-from-Russia' you mean 'ex-KGB-who-says-he's-reformed, then… er…yes," admitted Alex, swallowing quietly, as a number of articles flashed up on the screen, all describing unpleasant incidents, all of which were associated with Nikolaevitch, but couldn't be explicitly linked to him. Oh, perfect.

"Right," muttered Jack, tasting her sauce. "Raving madman straight out of the KGB moves in next door… fair enough. What do we do, then?"

"I," said Alex, grimly, "am going to see Alan Blunt."

* * *

The next day, after school, saw Alex standing outside the Royal and General Bank, aka the headquarters of Britain's elite secret service, mixed feelings swirling around in his gut. One was of overpowering hatred. It was for this organisation that he had given up a year of his normal life, had almost been thrown out of school, had been bloodied up and broken, physically and mentally. It was because of this organisation that Ian Rider was dead, and his nephew Alex had been made to replace him.

Another feeling was a strange one that he couldn't name. Revulsion, possibly, at the thought of admitting to Alan Blunt that something was wrong, and that he needed their help. Fear, another, at stepping back into that building with the possibility – albeit a faint one, but one which still existed – of emerging once more in the power of Blunt and MI6. The last feeling was so ridiculous that Alex would have laughed if it hadn't been so frightening. It was nostalgia. This building held so many memories for him – yes, most of them extremely bad ones – but Alex felt, deep inside him, that this building and this institution had been a part of his life.

Steeling himself, shaking off the peculiar sensation, he walked into reception. It was just as he remembered it. Then again, two years wasn't a particularly long time. It would have been stranger it everything had been different. He approached the desk, with its receptionist.

"Excuse me," he began, politely. The receptionist didn't even look up, but merely broke in:

"There are no appointments available today, sir. I'm sorry. However, if I could direct you to my colleague over there, she will book you in for a future appointment and update you on our latest offers."

Alex had heard the standard reply to the un-initiated before. He lowered his voice.

"My name is Alex Rider. I used to work here, with Mr. Blunt."

The receptionist glanced at him with icy blue eyes. Alex had a feeling that she wouldn't be as malleable as the receptionist in Merry and Little's.

"I'm sorry, sir, but I don't understand. As I said, if you would kindly make your way over to my colleague –"

"No, I'm Alex Rider," interrupted Alex, losing patience, "the nephew of Ian Rider? I left two years ago."

"Sir," the chill emanating from the receptionist was almost tangible, "I'm afraid I must ask you to leave."

"You don't understand!" Alex whispered, fiercely. "I _have_ to talk to Alan Blunt. It's really important."

"Sir, if you don't leave this instant, I will call security!"

"Sarah!" A clear voice rang out across the entrance hall. Mrs. Jones was striding towards them. Alex had never been so glad to see anyone before in his life.

"Mrs. Jones –" he began, but she spoke across him.

"Thank you, Sarah," she addressed the receptionist, coolly. "Everything is under control."

The woman nodded, and went back to her computer. Mrs. Jones turned to Alex with a rare smile.

"It's nice to see you again, Alex. If you'll come with me?"

Smoothly, she spun on her heel and walked once more towards the lift, Alex in her wake. In her office, Alex felt as though the last couple of years hadn't happened. The lingering smell of peppermint, the immaculate neatness of the room, the bare walls and sparse furniture. He was fourteen again, battered, bruised and preparing for yet another mission. Mrs. Jones opened the door, and held it open for him.

"Go on, Alex. Mr. Blunt will see you now."

Alan Blunt had listened carefully to Alex's explanation without interruption, his expression absolutely blank. Having finished, Alex sat back in his chair, and waited.

"So?" he said, tentatively, "Is there anything we can do? Sir?"

Blunt stood up, and moved to the window, his back to Alex.

"How long is it since you left us, Alex?" he asked, conversationally.

"Just over two years," Alex replied, puzzled.

"That's not a long time," Blunt gave him a brief smile.

Alex continued to wait, praying that Blunt might put him out of his misery, say he was going to help. Instead, Blunt returned to his chair and sighed heavily.

"That's not a long time," he repeated, "and I'm sure we taught you to research potential targets much more carefully."

"Sir?" Alex was thoroughly bewildered.

"Alex, you have just told me that a Russian politician has bought a warehouse in North London."

Alex winced at how stupid it sounded, when condensed and coming out of the mouth of the Head of MI6.

"But, sir, he hates the West, England especially. And he's got these _people_ guarding it for him. He's got something in there, I'm sure of it, sir. It could be a weapon, or something, sir -"

"We cannot persecute or target someone simply for owning property overseas, Alex."

"Sir, he's _dangerous_ –"

"He is not!" Blunt burst out suddenly. "Alex, I cannot deal with inanities at the moment. Yes, Nikolaevitch is a nasty piece of work, but you have given me no solid proof that he is plotting to endanger the country. From what you have told me, he could be storing valuables in that warehouse. It would explain the guards who have given you such a beating."

Alex felt a flush rise in his cheeks.

"It's not an inanity, sir," he replied, coldly. He'd never seen Blunt so angry – or, for a fact, so emotive – in his entire career at MI6. Blunt was positively trembling with rage as he stalked to a filing cabinet, pulled out a number of papers, and threw them on the desk in front of the boy.

"Who are these people, Alex?"

Alex scanned the pages, reading the names. Jeremy Thwaites, Stuart Hewsley, Sarah Whitely, Natasha Keaney…

"These are – were" Blunt corrected himself, smiling bitterly, "my agents. Another - Owain Thomas – was shot dead walking to the shops this morning. My agents – my _best _agents, are being targeted, Alex. From out of nowhere. My most skilled and experienced researchers are completely flummoxed. Five! Five dead in one week! It's unheard of! My point is, Alex, that I have my hands full. You made it inescapably clear to us two years ago, that you no longer wanted to be a part of our organisation. We pay you a annual pension for your services to us, but our first and foremost concern is to take care of our own. You are no longer one of our agents, Alex, and my priority is with the families of the dead."

For the first time, Alex noticed how tired Alan Blunt looked. Past the façade of cool detachment, Blunt was worried, crumpled and exhausted. Looking at him, Alex felt something akin to… pity.

"Alex, just… go home. Go home."

Back outside the Royal and General Bank, clutching a peppermint given to him in farewell by Mrs. Jones, Alex breathed in and out, head reeling.

It was turning out to be one hell of a week.


	5. Chapter 5

I liiiiiiiiiiiiiive!

Hello, once again, people! I come bearing Chapters! Well, chapter. Stop now with your groaning and misery, for soon it will be Easter, and I will be temporarily unable to update, due to having to connect our internet by swinging from the aerial.

Anyhoo, I hope you've all had a good week? If you're feeling particularly generous, I've put up a new story on Harry Potter - go and check it out if you've got time.

Right. Chapter.

Oh, and, please, please keep reviewing. I have a careers convention tomorrow, and surviving through 3 lectures will be tricky.

I love you all,

Xari xxxxxxx

* * *

At the same time that Alex left Mr. Blunt, a small, non-descript man stared moodily around his office. In contrast to the sparse amount of furniture, the walls of the large room were adorned with countless pictures of the same people: a woman and three young children. From the far wall near the bay windows to the door on the other side of the desk, the children gradually grew up, until, on the desk there was a picture of the boy clad in black robes and a mortar board, looking both ecstatic and awkward.

Yuri Nikolaevich Myachikov looked, pensively at the photo of his eldest son. He was a good boy; devoted to his family, recently graduated from the top University in Moscow, planning to go into politics, like his father... a triumph on all accounts. He wished he could say the same for his two girls; wild-haired hellions for whom politics meant little but money to spend. Only last week, they had helpfully countered his election campaign by being seen staggering out of a particularly disreputable night-club in the early hours of the morning.

Nikolaevich sighed to himself. It was risky business, putting oneself up for election in this democracy, especially against the President, who had been in power now for more than ten years, and was a firm favourite with the electorate. It was, quite literally, Russian roulette – a small chance to win. If he succeeded, he'd have gained what he had been working for since the collapse of the USSR. If he lost... the possibilities were too awful to contemplate.

Still, he had a plan up his sleeve. Something which, if timed correctly, could aid his chances considerably...

His phone rang. Picking it up, he listened to the voice at the other end, and a frown deepened the lines between his eyes.

"Deal with it," he replied, shortly, and put the phone back down. Life was anything but easy, when one's future was balanced on a knife edge.

* * *

Back-pedal about half an hour, to when Alex clambered back on the Tube, intending to head for home. His head pounded. What Blunt had made inescapably clear was that if his life was in danger, it was his problem, and no concern of theirs. And, to be fair, MI6 did have a lot on their plates for the moment. But to deal with a potentially deadly situation with nothing to help him... the thought made his blood run cold. Before he knew what he was doing, Alex had flung himself off the train, hauling his bike along with him, changed direction and headed for the Northern Line.

Once again in South Woodford, he wheeled his bike down the narrow stretch of road between the warehouses, wincing at each 'click' of the wheels resounding into the chill night air. Carefully placing it at the roadside, he straightened up, and listened. Behind him, he could hear the rustling of feet in grass. The sound, intermittent, cautious, grew louder as the person approached him. Hefting his weight onto one foot, Alex spun, lashing out with the other foot, and feeling it connect with something soft. Turning properly, he found Tamar, bent double, hand clamped to her stomach, glaring at him.

"You could have just said 'hello', you know," he remarked to her, "then maybe I wouldn't have had to kick you."

"'Maybe'?" She retorted. "Do you have some sort of death wish? Do you want to die _this_ badly? If not, stay away from here, and mind your own business."

"Give it up, Tamar; you don't have a gun, remember," he reminded her, and was rewarded with a black look.

"If I don't, what's to say others do?" she asked, crossly. Then, her eyes fell on his bike, and lit up excitedly.

"Is it yours?" Without asking permission, she sauntered over, and knelt by it, carefully running her hands over it, inspecting it with more enthusiasm than Alex had ever seen in her. "It's – cool, _pravilna_."

"'Cool'?" repeated Alex, eyebrows raised. "Did you pick that up specially, just to fit in with English teenagers? Anyway, I need to talk to you."

"No," replied Tamar, absently, still absorbed with the gears.

"What? I haven't even started talking, yet!"

"I know." She stood up, eyes still fixed, longingly, on the bike. "You see, it has now become an automatic reaction. You say 'I need to talk', I know that awkward questions are coming, so I say 'no'. Save you breath."

"Like Pavlov's dogs, eh?" commented Alex, dryly.

"_Shto_?" The girl frowned.

"Pavlov's dogs – 'experimentation in classic conditioning'," he explained, triumphantly – it had featured in a hellish section of his biology textbook. "You get so used to me asking questions that your reaction has become habitual. GCSE biology rocks," he added, with more than a hint of sarcasm.

Tamar snorted.

"It sounds stupid to me. And why involve dogs?"

"Because –"

"No, I don't think I want to know." She edged back over to the bike, crouching by the pedals, and spinning them, experimentally. "I will have _this_ type of bicycle when I get home..." she murmured, softly.

Alex noticed something silver glinting around her neck. Squinting closer, he saw it was the three-barred Crucifix, the symbol of the Russian Orthodox Church. Swinging beside it was a small medallion of the Mother and Child. He frowned at it, puzzled.

"You're Orthodox?"

"Yes; why?" Tamar was now inspecting the back wheel.

"And you believe in God, and the Ten Commandments, and all the rest?"

"Why shouldn't I?"

"'Thou shalt not murder", answered Alex, simply. "Doesn't what you do go against your religion in the most explicit way possible?"

A pensive look crossed over Tamar's face, and she rocked back on her heels. It was obviously something she'd never thought about before.

"I can't change what I do," she said, carefully.

"That's not an answer," Alex waved a hand, dismissively.

"No; maybe not," she admitted, eyes flashing, dangerously. "But I serve my God in everything else. I keep my fasts, I pray, I thank God at the breaking of the bread. All I can do is hope that I can get the blood off my hands at the end of the day."

"Aren't your employers concerned for your immortal soul, then?" mocked Alex, folding his arms. Tamar looked at him in silence. Finally, she spoke.

"Do _you_ believe in God, Alex Rider?"

Alex paused.

"I suppose... in a kind of vague way I believe there's a higher being. I'm just not sure yet."

"And you, too, have killed people – murdered them?" Tamar deliberately emphasised the word 'murdered'.

"Most of it was in self-defence," Alex muttered, growing uncomfortable.

"Makes no difference. You took another person's life, whether to save yourself, or not. _I_ take people's lives because that is what I am told to do."

"So you're a hired assassin, not a spy? Really?" A sceptical note entered Alex's voice.

"Tell me, if _your_ superiors at MI6 told you to do something you didn't want to do, would you refuse?" Tamar almost snapped.

Alex was about to hotly affirm the statement, when a sudden memory flashed into his mind. The first time he'd worked for MI6... Jack's visa. If he hadn't agreed to the terms, she'd have been deported. Tamar watched him, intently.

"See?" she prodded, softly. "You admit it. See, Alex Rider, you and me are of no importance in our world. I am..._patreblayemi... _expendable, and so are you. We are the underdogs. We just carry out what we are told to do. Me, I can shoot a man with absolutely no compunction at all, and it makes no difference to my religion because I am carrying out my orders."

"That really doesn't make sense to me," muttered Alex, shaking his head, "but I digress... I know what you and your lot are up to."

Tamar groaned.

"Not again!"

"Yes, again," continued Alex, ruthlessly. "And you can tell that boss of yours that whatever fucked-up thing he's planning with that warehouse, he can forget it."

"Oh?" retorted Tamar, "Don't you ever wake up from whatever world you live in, and think to yourself 'of course, I'm talking _diyerma_!'?"

Alex noticed something.

"You're speaking more Russian than you do normally. Why is that?"

The girl looked away, picking at pieces of grass.

"I miss home, when I'm away," she admitted, her face carefully expressionless. "Speaking my language makes home seem closer."

Alex didn't even feel a twinge of guilt as he continued his interrogation. Her vulnerability was useful; anyway, this was Tamar: she'd been stabbing people in the back since nursery school.

"Nice," he threw in, casually. "So, I have my own theories about this little plotlet you're hatching."

"Don't patronise me, Alex Rider," Tamar came out of her gloom, eyes glittering.

"Don't try to psychoanalyse me half to death, then," he rejoined. "Anyway, you know what I think?"

"Surprise me."

She was edging back towards this bike again.

"I think you and your buddies are going to bring something over from Russia, or wherever, in the next couple of days. That something is going to have a trigger device. That something is going to have the ability to bring down our economy, or stop our food imports at a crucial time. In short, that something is going to bring our country to its knees before you can say 'KGB'."

"Fascinating," replied Tamar, twisting her head around to scrutinise the bike's brake-system, "and what is this mysterious 'something', if you're so very clever."

"Oh, I don't know that yet," he assured her. "But I will. Very soon, in fact. Personally, I'm betting on an electronic virus, but I won't rule out biological warfare entirely. Sadly, I've met a great deal of people like you before. After a while, the pattern becomes pretty standard, it's only the people involved who are different. Gets boring, after a while."

"Thanks," said Tamar, dryly. "I love you, too."

"And those cracked ribs are just love-taps, aren't they? No – you're more interesting. For once, I'm putting _myself_ in a situation from which I probably won't re-emerge, at least maimed, instead of being _put_ there by a second party. It's –"

"Refreshing?" she interrupted, brightly.

"No, it's –"

"Exhilarating?"

"_No_, and don't practice your English on me. Find my maths teacher and practice on him. If you can give him a nice whack to the head so he forgets anything about simultaneous equations, so much the better. What I was going to say was, you're an experience. There aren't many killer-spies under twenty, you know. I thought I was unique in that way."

"You are. I was born and trained to do this. You came up with it by yourself."

"Which says oh-so-much about my character," muttered Alex, gloomily, getting up. "I'm off."

"Good," snapped Tamar, smartly. "And stop poking around unless you want a gun to your head or an unexpected voyage down the Thames in a sack."

"Another endearment," said Alex with a sardonic grin. "Goodbye, my lover. I have to go and see a man about a politician."

With a careless wave, he grabbed his bike, and zoomed off in the direction of the Tube once more.

* * *

Tamar stayed sat on her tussock of grass, half mourning the loss of the bike, half on the alert for any unwitting citizens doing some innocent snooping. She stared at the horizon, watching the watery sunlight begin to fade and the orange light-pollution glow as the streetlights flared abruptly into action.

It was almost time for her to come off duty, and she was glad. No-one could call what she did 'boring', but sometimes there was a considerable lag in interesting things to do. She supposed that's why she hadn't killed Rider like she should have done, ex-agent though he was. He provided entertainment. Occasionally violent entertainment, but entertainment, none the less. And, of course, she wasn't sure she _could_ kill him. Not in a fair fight, anyway – even though fighting fair had always been of a smaller priority for Tamar – but he was something special. She had a gift for balance and reflex, yes. Honed by intensive, gruelling training, yes. But his talent, apparently, was God-given. Lucky bastard.

Cursing the cold wind in Russian, she turned her mind to musing over strange English phrases that she'd picked up during the day. And they were odd... 'Raining cats and dogs'... 'Cut your losses'... 'Red-letter days'... and Rider's 'See a man about a politician'? She was usually quite adept at worming meaning from seemingly meaningless sentences, but 'see a man about a politician' struck no chords in her mind. Could it be slang, maybe? As in, I have to go because I'm...

"...Seeing a man about a politician," she repeated to herself, and the blindingly obvious hit her.

_I know what your lot are up to... biological warfare... bring this country to its knees... see a man about a politician..._

How _could_ she have been so stupid?

Standing up, she drew her mobile from her pocket, and dialled the number that automatically flashed up in her mind. It rang, and was picked up abruptly.

"Boss," she muttered, dropping back into her native language. "We've got a problem."

The harsh, clipped voice of her employer raised itself above the static and poor reception.

"_Deal with it._"

* * *

Alex unlocked his front door, and dumped his bag on the stairs.

"Jack?" he called, "I'm home."

"Oh, you're back," Jack popped her head around the sitting room door, and smiled at him. "Good. And on time for once, I see. Put the kettle on, and grab that tray, will you? We have a visitor."

Alex's heart raced. On leaving the Royal and General Bank after his frankly disappointing talk with Alan Blunt, he had given Jack a ring. Alex didn't have so much bravado that he could think confidently about uncovering a dangerous conspiracy all on his own. Jack, on his instruction, had leafed through the address book locked in his cupboard, and had found Smithers' number, given to him on the day he had left MI6 – 'for future reference, boy'. He had decided to take advantage of that invitation.

Pouring boiling water into the teapot, he carried the tray of milk, sugar and biscuits through to the other room.

Smithers sat there on the sofa, completely unchanged in two years, beaming happily.

"Ah, Alex, lad," he smiled, looking speculatively at the boy. "It's nice to see you again. You've shot up quite a bit, haven't you? Then again, I suppose boys grow; it's their natures. I was absolutely delighted to hear Miss Starbright's voice again," he added, without pause, and Jack jumped at the abrupt change of topic.

"Th-thanks," she mumbled, faintly. Jack, though being thoroughly lively herself, was not altogether comfortable with other energetic people. "It's lovely having you here."

"And to be invited here, my dear," Smithers waved his hand, genially.

"Now, Alex," he said, suddenly serious. "Apparently, you have some news for me."

"Er, yes. It sounds a bit stupid at first," he admitted. "But I promise you there's something. I'm not just making it up for shi – _kicks_ and giggles," he amended, hastily.

"Then I will listen," Smithers replied, gravely. "You've proved your maturity quite often enough in the service of this country. Go on. Start at the beginning."

Alex recounted, in chronological order, the events of the previous week; from Tamar following him, to the reverse, to his evidence gained in the estate agent, and finally, to his conversation with Alan Blunt. Throughout his story, Smithers took note of every single word, questioning him on different points, asking him to repeat things, and jotting the whole lot down in a small notebook. When Alex had stopped talking, he finished writing, and then looked at the boy sitting opposite him on the sofa.

"Alex," he said, slowly, carefully dropping another lump of sugar in his tea. "I make it a point never to argue with my superiors. Now, Mr Blunt is my superior."

"Sir –" broke in Alex, desperate. He needed Smithers in this mess, for God's sake!

"No, let me finish. Yes, Mr Blunt is my superior. But," he emphasised, heavily, "_but_ he is also extremely busy at this moment. I gather from your conversation that you are aware of the deaths of MI6 agents in London. MI6 have a lot on their plates at the moment. I'm not saying that this affects their judgement, but I, who am not so busy, can see that many things you have told me add up."

"Does this mean you're going to help us, sir?" Alex asked, with bated breath.

"Yes, I help – as far as I can, that is," Smithers added, sharply. "As you may expect, Alex, I am simply an engineer. I am not trained for combat. Also, the consequences if higher forces found out I was moonlighting could be... severe. Especially as you are no longer a part of our organisation, and therefore have no right to inside technique. However, I've brought you some gadgets. I just hope they'll be useful. Nothing fancy, mind, but useful."

Both Alex and Jack leaned forward, eagerly, as Smithers opened his bag.

"Right. Here, you've got your basic grenades; smoke; pepper-spray; ice; I'm hoping you won't be killing anybody, but in this business you can never be too careful. So, it is with overwhelming reluctance that I give you an explosive. It's triggered the same way as the others – _don't_ get them confused, or we'll be scraping you off a pavement somewhere, and burying your remains in a matchbox..."

He glanced at Alex, who was grinning.

"Aside from that, you got flat knives to wear under your clothes – _self-defence only,_ Alex – four of them in total; two for your wrists, two for your shins. That's about it." Smithers smiled, sardonically. "You may have noticed I've given up the whole 'zit cream' guise. Still, I suppose you're sixteen and therefore your attention span lasts longer than a minute."

"No gun?" asked Alex, quietly.

"No, Alex," replied Smithers, not unkindly. "You're not at the legal age to have an automatic weapon. This is the best I can do."

"The _considerable_ best," agreed Jack, shooting a warning look at Alex. "And thank you for this, Mr. Smithers. While I'd rather he wasn't getting involved with this at all, I'm glad he has you to watch him."

The man patted her hand.

"No trouble, my dear, no trouble. No, if you'll excuse me, I must be going. Stay safe, both of you."

Grasping Alex's hand, and kissing Jack on the cheek, Smithers let himself out.

* * *

Alex had been privately dreading the walk to school the next morning. He had decided the night before that it wasn't fair to keep Tom in the dark about the recent events. Tom was bright – scatty, yes, but bright – and it was more than likely that he'd figure out something was wrong without being told. Alex just wasn't sure how positive Tom's reaction was going to be.

As it turned out, quite positive.

"Well," Tom said, bracingly, "At least you're not being ordered around by a bunch of megalomaniacal control-freaks, now. You're your own man!"

"Yeah," Alex retorted, bitterly. "Which means it's my own fault if I get killed."

"You're smarter than that, and you know it. So; who's after you this time?"

Swiftly, Alex went into detail. Tom whistled.

"A girl, eh? Be careful you don't get romantically involved – then it really would be 'kiss kiss, bang bang.'"

Alex stopped in his tracks.

"How is that funny?"

Laughing, he shoved Tom inside the school gates, trying not to think how comforting the knives felt, strapped to his wrists, under his shirt.

* * *

Throughout the day, Alex was aware of the cold leather sheathes against his legs and wrists. Feeling foolish, but too wary to take chances, he'd stashed a couple of the grenades inside his bag, just in case. The chances of the school being attacked were a million to one, he knew, but he was playing safe.

He walked home with Tom as usual, trying to fend off Tom's constant innuendos about being up against a girl. Gradually, gradually, he started to relax, and feel less exposed. It was near to December, now, and even at half-past-three, the sky was darkening. More so, due to the thick cloud, and the threat of a storm in the air. Waving good-bye to Tom once again, Alex continued down the street, the streetlights turning his skin a luminous orange.

It was almost deadly quiet, aside from the rustle of the leaves, and the distant him of traffic in City Centre. Alex left the glow-worm lights of the houses, and cut through the park, walking faster against the cold, and the faintly sinister feeling that comes with walking somewhere alone at night. The wind roared through the trees, and Alex shivered, wishing that home was closer. He then stopped dead in the middle of the path. The faintly sinister feeling had turned into an extremely tangible sinister feeling. Something, to coin a phrase, was out there.

Tamar?

He was about to call, then clamped a hand over his mouth, and forced himself to take a step forward. Then another, then another. It required a conscious act of thought to keep moving. He didn't know it was Tamar. Yeah – he was pretty sure, but she'd make her presence known by tackling his kneecaps, wouldn't she? A couple of minutes silence went by, as Alex reached the end of the park, and turned into the street where he lived.

The sinister feeling grew, considerably, and Alex felt sick with fear. The fear increased as he heard footsteps behind him. He upped his pace, to be certain, and sure enough, the footsteps sped up, paced with his so they were almost inaudible.

Alex slowed, slightly, reaching for a grenade in the pocket of his bag, and froze, as the sound of a gun being cocked echoed to him from the darkness behind him.

He didn't stop to think. He lunged for the ground, and rolled, throwing the grenade behind him as he went. There was a bang, and the air around him was filled with smoke. Leaping to his feet, he ran – sprinted – in the direction of his front door. He heard the gunshot a split second before white-hot pain grazed his leg. Fumbling with his keys in the lock, he prayed audibly, to God, or whatever being there was up there.

The door opened, and Alex, gasping, threw himself inside.

"That," he panted, shaking, "Was not Tamar."

"What's wrong?" Jack had come downstairs, frowning at him in concern. "Alex? What's happened to your leg?"

Alex looked down at his grey trousers. Blood had soaked through the fabric, leaving a dark stain.

"It's all right," he tried to smile reassurance at her; "I don't think it's that deep."

Jack, as always, took this new development in her stride.

"Well," she sighed, walking into the kitchen, and searching under the sink. "I'm still going to give it a going over with surgical spirit. I've put too much work into you to have you catch tetanus now."

"I don't think you can catch tetanus from bullet-wounds, can you?" Alex asked, sinking, bonelessly into a chair.

Jack looked at him, sharply.

"Bullet-wounds? Oh, Alex, not again!"

"Jack, it's not my fault that they've started shooting at me!"

"If you hadn't got involved –"

"Yeah, but I _had_ to, Jack!" Alex felt himself rising. "This wasn't exactly something I could say 'Ah well, not my business, fuck the whole thing' to, was it? And this _proves_ something! They want me gone!"

"Calm down; you're losing blood," ordered Jack, brusquely. Alex obeyed, tension running through his body. Despite Jack's obvious anger and worry, the hand that dabbed surgical spirit on his wound was gentle.

"Look," she started, carefully. "It's not my business. If your conscience can't take it, fine, go ahead. I'm not your mother. But please, do everyone who cares about you a favour, and don't get yourself killed, all right?"

Alex nodded, the anger seeping out of him.

"Jack?"

She looked up.

"I'm sorry."

She smiled, and patted his leg with one hand, grabbing a length of bandage with the other.

"Hold that there, will you? Good. What do you want for supper?"

"Honestly don't mind. Whatever you feel like. But, Jack..."

"Mmm?"

He slid off the chair, gingerly testing his leg on the floor. The graze was bloody, but shallow. Not the worst he'd had, and hopefully not the worst he'd get.

"Don't go outside, tomorrow, yeah?"

Looking at his face, Jack understood.

"_I'll_ be careful, but what about you? Stay out of trouble, ok?"

Alex stared out of the window into the night.

"I don't go _looking_ for trouble. It usually looks for _me_!"


End file.
